When Marianne put aside her book, I engaged her in conversation and told her of my library at Delaford.
‘I hope you and your family will visit me there. You will be able to see your friends in the parsonage, and you may have free rein of my library. There are many books I am sure you would enjoy. Have you read Cowper?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘But I have not been able to find all of his work.’
‘Then you have a treat awaiting you. And there are some plays I believe you will also enjoy.’
‘Your library is well stocked?’
‘With older volumes, yes, for my grandfather was very proud of the library, but with newer volumes, no. My father was not fond of books, and although I have been adding to it ever since I inherited, and have purchased some modern tomes, I still have some way to go before I can claim it is a fine library.’
‘Our library at Norland was also neglected,’ she said. ‘I used to dream of buying every new volume of poetry and filling the shelves with all my favourite works. Indeed, I thought that if I were to come into a fortune, I would like nothing better than to send for all the newest works from London.’
‘Then perhaps you will help me choose some books when you come and stay at Delaford with your mother and sisters.’
‘I would like that. And Edward, perhaps, might be able to use the library, too.’
‘Of course,’ I said, but mention of Edward seemed to have upset her, and she fell silent.
Sensing her mood, I agreed to Palmer’s suggestion that we should have a game of cards, and Marianne sought solace once more in her music.
Monday 10 April
The weather was again wet, and when I returned from the billiard room, I was alarmed to find that Marianne, who had gone outside after dinner, had not returned.
‘She should not be outside in such weather,’ I said to her sister, for the rain was pouring down outside the windows.
‘She often likes to walk in the evenings. I do not believe she can bear to be indoors.’
I sat and talked to her, but my eyes were always looking through the window for Marianne. I pictured her running through the woods, trying to ease her spirits by fresh air and exercise, and I wished the sun could have shone for her. A smiling April would have done much to heal her heart, I was sure.
She returned at last, wet and bedraggled, and looking no happier for her exercise.
‘There, now, you shouldn’t be sitting in those wet shoes and stockings,’ said Mrs Jennings when she entered the room.
‘I am too tired to change at the moment,’ said Marianne as she settled herself into a chair by the fire.
Nothing more was said, but it was some time before she retired to her room to change, and I was not surprised when, this evening, she complained of a sore throat and head.
‘You do not look very well,’ said Mrs Jennings, with maternal solicitousness. ‘You must have a tincture.’
‘No, it is nothing, or at least, nothing a good night’s sleep will not cure,’ said Marianne.
‘I will go upstairs with you,’ said Miss Dashwood, laying down her needlework.
‘There is no need, but I think I must retire.’
She bade us good night, and we were left to pass the evening without her; not a great loss to the others, but a sad blow to me, for her presence is becoming more and more necessary to me. When I see her, when I hear her, I am happy; and when she is not there, I feel as though a part of me is missing.
Tuesday 11 April
I was pleased to see Marianne appear at breakfast this morning, and I asked her how she did. She replied that she was well, but though she tried to convince herself that she was indeed the same as always, it soon became apparent that she was not. She sat over the fire, shivering, for most of the day, and when she was not by the fire, she was lying on the sofa, too listless to read.
I was astonished at Miss Dashwood’s composure, for, although she tended her sister during the day, she seemed to think that a good night’s sleep would mend matters, whereas to my eyes her sister was really ill.
However, I could say nothing beyond a general wish for her improved health, but I could not sleep when I retired to my own room and spent most of the night in pacing the floor.
Had I been too sanguine in believing her to be recovering from Willoughby? In a low mood, I thought that I had, for she had not recovered from him at all. And my hopes that she could love me were equally ill-founded. I had been too optimistic. I had thought that she would recover from Willoughby, fall in love with me and that we would be married.
What a fool I had been.
Wednesday 12 April
Marianne joined us for breakfast this morning, but it soon became obvious that she could not sit up, and she retired, voluntarily, to bed.
‘Poor girl, she is very bad,’ said Mrs Jennings, with a shake of her head. ‘Miss Dashwood, I advise you to send for Charlotte’s apothecary. He will be able to give her something to make her feel better.’
‘Yes, indeed, Mama, we must send for him at once,’ said Charlotte.
‘You are very kind,’ said Miss Dashwood, and her ready compliance showed me that she, too, thought the case to be serious.
The apothecary came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet by pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and by speaking of an infection, gave instant alarm to Charlotte on the baby’s account.
Mrs Jennings looked grave, and advised Charlotte to remove at once with the baby.
Palmer at first ridiculed their fears, but their anxiety was at last too great for him to withstand and within an hour of the apothecary’s arrival, Charlotte set off, with her little boy and his nurse, for the house of a near relation of Palmer’s, who lived a few miles from Bath.
She urged Mrs Jennings to accompany her, but Mrs Jennings, with a true motherly heart, declared that she could not leave Cleveland whilst Marianne was ill, for, as Marianne’s mother was not with her, she must take her place.
I blessed her for her kindness, and I regretted that I could do nothing except be there, in case the ladies should have need of me.
I took out my frustrations on the billiard table, and did not retire until the early hours of the morning.
Thursday 13 April
If Marianne had not fallen ill, she would have been on her way home by now, for she and her sister were due to leave Cleveland today, but she is still too ill to think of travelling.
I am beside myself with worry. She should be getting better, but she seems to be getting worse. If only I could go into the sick room! Then I could see how she fared. Her sister tells me that she is tolerable, but I fear the worst. I imagine her pale and drawn, with dark rings under her eyes, and no matter how much I tell myself that I must not indulge in such fancies, I cannot help it.
Not wanting to be a burden to Mrs Jennings, I offered to leave the house, even though my heart cried out against it, but she, good soul, would not hear of it. She said that I must remain, or who would play piquet with her in the evening when Miss Dashwood was with her sister?
Her words came from the goodness of her heart, for she knew of my feelings for Marianne, and I thanked her silently for allowing, nay, encouraging me to remain.
Palmer encouraged me, too, for he had decided to follow his wife, but he did not like to leave the ladies alone, without anyone to assist or advise them should they need it.
And so it was settled that I should stay.